


act two: disarmed

by pegaeae



Series: the life, the lyna, the legend [12]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-23 21:22:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17087972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pegaeae/pseuds/pegaeae
Summary: you have to crack a few eggs to make an omelet





	act two: disarmed

theran loses his arm along with the anchor and makes the trek back through the eluvians with a heavy heart. there is a sour taste in his mouth and a sickness in his belly that not even dorian can take away and he finds himself wandering the halls of the winter palace listlessly, aimlessly.

what stops him is something that only makes it worse; the sound of home, so clear and warm that bile rushes up his throat, homesickness surging through his body until he’s gasping with tears. it’s mahariel, of course—who else would be crooning her little one to sleep with dalish lullabies, words laced so heavily with love?  _melava_ _somniar, da’len._

he stands outside the room, bracketed by the doorway, until she notices him, the corners of her eyes creasing as she squints towards him. “theran?” she asks, and he takes an involuntary, stumbling step forward, some part of him called by the warmth in her voice. he remembers the way his mother smelled like sunshine and spring, how her voice meant  _home_ , meant  _safety_ , how much he  _misses_ her. his entire body quakes as that sickness, that fear, bleeds out of him as heavy tears.  _if only you had heard what solas said he would do to our people, mahariel. if only you had been there,_ he thinks, as if she would’ve been braver than he, who could not bring himself to hurt a man he’d once looked up to.

“oh,  _ma’hallain_ ,” she says, opening her arms, and her voice is soaked with maternal concern, with love, with care enough that a howl of sorrow rips through his throat and he takes one, two, three large steps forward until her arms are wrapped around him, warm and strong and loving, stroking his long hair.

she is so small compared to him, but he leans on her anyways, wordlessly expressing his grief as her hands find his fevered forehead and the ragged remains of his sleeve, the rounded stump of his left arm. she presses gentle kisses to his cheek, rubs large, soothing circles on his back. “i will kill him,” she vows, fiercely. a mother’s promise, made without even knowing the circumstances of his pain—he is hurting, and so she will hurt the one who did this to him. “i will hunt him down and i will  _kill_  him.”


End file.
